


Obeisance

by ultharkitty



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, The Dunwich Horror - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2946014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nyarlathotep pays a visit to Yog-Sothoth.</p><p>Written to a request by ucalegonne on Tumblr for Nyarlathotep, Yog-Sothoth - Pleasing the gatekeeper. This isn't quite tentacle smut, but it's getting there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obeisance

Nyarlathotep danced between dimensions, unfettered and jubilant in his freedoms. His form shifted one moment to the next, more fluid than the best of the shoggoths, as tangible as a dream. It was time to make obeisance, and although time was mutable, suggestible, as open to him as to the Hounds and as safe, there came a moment in every aeon when the right thing - the _only_ thing - to do was to journey to the spheres and throw himself down on his literal and proverbial knees. 

The spheres parted in welcome, a space opening for the cabochon bubbles of the form he had chosen to wear. He eased himself through the opening, his outer membranes breaking down, the boundaries of his self growing dissolute.

 _Our soul_ , the spheres told him, and it was speech in the way that Azathoth could speak, in the manner of dead Cthulhu's dreaming. Thoughts formed from impression, memory, desire. Nyarlathotep projected his agreement, his pleasure at being greeted so warmly. A lance of joy speared him, a slithering mass of tendrils cupped and lifted him. His membranes split and reformed, his core burning as the tendrils caressed him. The spheres jostled him, an embrace made of belonging, and he grew tendrils of his own in a giddy, gleeful need to reciprocate. 

_Our messenger,_ the spheres sang, and Nyarlathotep glowed violet with the rush of stolen sensation, of memory and the fierce grating of the passage of time. The spheres quaked in anger-disgust and the oddest alien sensation of loss. Nyarlathotep reached further, deeper, his tendrils soothing now, his core pulsing to placate. 

The twins were dead, the knowledge raw and recent. The spheres were bruised, an area the size of Nyarlathotep's current incarnation showed grey and opaque in contrast to the translucent and glorious iridescence of the rest. He slid over the damaged membrane, merging a while to enjoy the power of its healing, and began to sing. 

It was a hymn of worship, a eulogy of submission. The spheres rang with it, and Nyarlathotep slid his tendrils to the heart of them, to the gleaming violet core of Yog-Sothoth. He shuddered in anticipation as his boundaries thinned to nothing and they merged. 

It was an age before he returned to his separate self, warm and quivering in the embrace of the spheres. He rolled his bubbles together, and gently drew his tendrils back into himself. The gate opened, the dimensions crowding shadow-thin in the opening. 

_Go now,_ the spheres told him. _Our soul, our messenger._

Nyarlathotep flattened himself to the nest of tendrils in abject prostration, and dived away through the gate.


End file.
